


Qui N’avance Pas, Recule

by AQuietThinker



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drowning, Flashbacks, French, Gen, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Hands, Injury, Introspection, War, Water, World War II, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker
Summary: By the time that Alex cried out to Gibson, it seems that it's already too late for the frenchman to survive the rising waters.(Lots of introspection and french)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: 'Hands'





	Qui N’avance Pas, Recule

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently joined the serveur of Dunkirk Creators after watching the film three times and I am in love with it. Also, it includes some phrases in French, I'll translate them for you all at the end- for now, the title means "He who does not move forwards, falls behind."

As soon as the water enters his throat, he knows he's not going to make it.

It seems as though his mind has given up, disconnecting from his body’s primitive instincts that keep clawing at the water, kicking against the metal surface. His eyes cry out against the burn of salt but refuse to close, still gazing at the light that filters through.

The hands of the ocean are cold and punishing, wrapping around his limbs and chanting _come home to me. Viens au paradis._

_Non. J’appartiens à l’enfer._

He’d been lucky so far. Finding the young english boy who sticked to him like a brother, or perhaps more than that, and climbing up a ship. Letters from home, or at least those from last year before they ceased to arrive, depicted the cruel luck men from his hometown endured. His mother was unaware of how his heart shattered every time that she reported another widow, or a fatherless child from home, or all those who lost men blown to pieces by artillery.

In her last letter the old Parissiene only lamented that she would die far away from her city, tucked away in the farmhouse of lands where sunflowers once grew. But the golden flowers now burned with German rage.

As the cold creeps through his back and his mouth swallows another mouthful of the water in vain attempts to breath, he remembers his father.

_“Qui n’avance pas, recule, Hugo.”_

_“Ouais, papa.”_

They would walk together through the fields during the morning, when he was just a child hugging himself from the breeze.

_“Tu comprends ce que je dis?”_

_“Ouais papa, je comprends.”_

Papa never called him by his prefered name, and the only memory of affection he could remember were his hands on his shoulder. Monsieur Guillet had the rough hands of a carpenter, experienced fingers with digits callused by time. Hands that would slap him whenever he smiled at boys or played with his cousin. Hands that, whenever they patted his shoulders, the young frenchman would beam on the inside.

Ironically, the only thing that remained of the man after a shell blew him up in the first months of wars were six of his ten digits.

There's screaming in this distance. He hopes- prays that the english boy is safe, that a boat picks him up and takes him to the chalk cliffs for salvation. He even begs for the other one, the accuser who revealed his secret. There's no grudge for him in his heart. The fate of drowning was already marked on his soul.

_S'il te plait_

Something explodes near his left side and his ear stops catching the watered battlefield.

Philipe Guillet screams into the darkness one last time before his body refuses to respond anymore. His fingers claw no more, his spine aches and his throat begs for release, but it's time to give up.

As unconsciousness darkens his view, a pair of hands dropped into the water from the surface, coarse and bleeding, yet shining ethereally through the pallid waters. They compare to his fathers’, calling from the heavens…

He’s ready to go home but the hands shake him awake, tugging on his arms. They are gentle at first but soon the fingers dig excruciating marks under his shoulders, hoisting him up.

When his face meets the surface the hands become blurrier along with the unnamed soldier that is dragging him. He parts his lips with an estranged gasp and oxygen rushes down his throat like honey. The atmosphere is too bright, but the air feels heavenly.

From the corner of his eye he finally recognises his saviour. It's hard to form words and even more difficult to try to imitate the english language.

“Vous… you.”

Alex’s eyes shine deeply, but his smirk only contains the bitterness of war. “You know what they say Gibson, mieux vaut tard que jamais.”

A blonde boy hoists them up and he crashes against a wooden floor that rocks with the waves, and a dozen haunted eyes are pinned on his head. His remaining ear can hear the dull noises around him; an engine coming to life and the desperate screams of those left behind to float among oil. But it all blurs eventually.

The salt is drying against his uniform and his eyes are burning, but the pale blue sky offers some comfort. Slowly, he drifts unconscious with the bleeding hand that saved him fading to black.

**Author's Note:**

> Right so, translations:  
> "Viens au paradis." means; come to paradise.  
> "Non. J’appartiens à l’enfer." means; No, I belong in hell.  
> “Qui n’avance pas, recule, Hugo.” means; he who does not move forwards, falls behind.  
> “Ouais, papa.” means; yeah dad.  
> “Tu comprends ce que je dis?” means: do you understand what I'm saying?  
> “Ouais papa, je comprends.” means: yes dad, i understand  
> "...mieux vaut tard que jamais" means: better late than never.


End file.
